


Private Enemy

by wings_simulacrum



Category: Elvis Cole - Robert Crais
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Harassment, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Mild Language, Stalking, some tags not added to avoid spoilers but not tags about triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26203573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wings_simulacrum/pseuds/wings_simulacrum
Summary: Elvis Cole's acquaintance and occasional consultant James Lockstep appears at his office one morning with a roll of cash and a problem: someone is stalking him, and he doesn't know who or why.Cole and Pike investigate, chasing the dangers of LA's organized crime from one end of the city to the other. What they find instead is something older, one truth among many that James keeps to himself. There's something dark after James, and if he's ever going to be free, he'll need to turn around and look it in the eye.
Relationships: Elvis Cole & Joe Pike, Elvis Cole & Original Male Character, Joe Pike & Original Male Character
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story will include references to past sexual trauma, and a future chapter may include a more in-depth discussion. However, there will be no detailed description of the event in question, ever.

**_Elvis_ **

There was already somebody waiting for me when I exited the fourth floor stairwell of my office building. I knew that it had been a month at least since I’d made the news or pissed off any cheating spouses, so I wasn’t a hot-ticket item and I wasn’t up for a knuckle sandwich - I hoped. He was just an eager beaver. I’d have to tell him that I don’t give early bird discounts.

From a distance, I didn’t recognize the man. He looked to be in his late 20’s or early 30’s and slight in build. His hair was medium-length on top and shaved on the sides, a brilliant ginger-red that was slightly too bright to pass for natural. The young man leaned comfortably against my door frame with his arms crossed and his head down, wearing a matching set of light grey scrubs. I remembered it was time to schedule a yearly checkup. Maybe this guy could do it.

When he heard my approach he looked up, and I realized I did know the man after all. James Lockstep had previously consulted for yours truly - and was truly unrecognizable from when I’d seen him last. The most recent time we’d worked together, he was about ten pounds heavier with shaggy blond hair. The time before that, his hair was inky black and he’d dressed as one of those emo types. When we’d first met, James had been a tiny guy in skinny jeans and Docs who wore a lot of flannel and shaved his own undercut. James was a goddamned chameleon, and that was one of the unique skills I tapped him for. That, and mothers loved him. Go figure.

“Mr. Cole!” James smiled brightly as I approached, a look I wasn’t used to getting from most people. He extended a hand and I shook it. Such a charming young man, I thought, and then I got it about the mothers. This close, I could see that his deep-set eyes were a shade of blue. He looked striking, and I imagined there had to be at least one woman in his life who wanted to know him better.

“Please, James,” I unlocked my office door and ushered him in, “you know I’m no mister.” I closed the door behind us and he sat.

I crossed the room and opened my balcony doors - it was a gorgeous morning outside - and then I sat at my desk across from James. On one wall, my Pinocchio clock ticked faithfully, his ever-wandering eyes scanning left to right across the room with the movement of the second hand. Most people disliked the clock, if they knew what to make of it at all. The first time James had come into my office, nearly six years ago, he’d smiled at it and said it was “fitting.” He refused to elaborate on that day or any other. I liked James a lot.

“I hope this isn’t a bad time.” James leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands as though he were praying. I wondered if there was a patron saint of private detectives. I probably wasn’t in favor.

“You’ve caught me in the middle of peak season, as you can see,” I said as I gestured to my depressingly empty desk. I hadn’t had a case in weeks, and I was starting to get restless. “You’re not here looking for work, are you?”

“No, no. Actually…” James produced a roll of 50's from his scrub pockets and placed it on my desk. It was probably more than I charged for most jobs, including expenses. “I came to ask you for help.” He didn’t meet my eyes when I leaned forward, just stared at the desk between us. He didn't even give the cash a second look. “I think I’m being stalked, and I need to know who.”

“I see.” I didn’t see. We’d worked together enough that I could tell James wasn’t like most people in this business. He wasn’t the kind of asshole to get himself noticed, piss people off, and pay for it later by vandalism or a beating. I was that kind of asshole. James was quiet, unassuming, and kept his nose out of trouble as much as one reasonably could. “Why do you believe you’re being stalked?”

“Seven weeks ago, I started noticing this guy in the parking lot at work - at the hospital.” Hence the scrubs. And here I thought medical chic was coming into fashion. “He was always around in the evenings when I showed up for my shifts, hanging around by the employee entrance. He gave me that creepy vibe, you know?”

“I like to call it a winner’s attitude.”

“Sure. Well, I spotted him for three shifts in a row before I mentioned it to security. They said they ran him off, but then I saw him the next morning.” James finally looked at me. “And then I saw him outside my apartment the next day.”

“What does he look like?”

“Hard to say, he doesn’t get close. Male, probably white, fit but not bulky. He always wears a baseball cap and a hoodie so I can’t see much of his face.”

“So he looks like half of Los Angeles.”

“He could be Brad fuckin’ Pitt for all I know, man.” Man. I love the youth. “But I’ve spotted him around my apartment a few times since then, and a month ago he left me something.” James pulled a photo out of a pants pocket. It was a picture of him in a car, pulling out of a parking lot. In the photo he was looking directly at the driver, but it was clear that he didn’t know he was being watched. He was just looking both ways.

“Where did he leave it?”

“Under the door of my apartment.” James pulled out five more photos and set them on the desk between us. “I live in a gated building, so he’s following someone in or he knows the code. But he knows where I live and he can get to me.”

“If he can get to you, why hasn’t he?” I held the first picture in my hands, looking at the details around James. It was hard to tell exactly where he was, but he was dressed in regular clothing. So, not on his way to or from work. Whoever this was, they had him dead to rights.

“I don’t know. This is my best guess, though,” James said. He pulled the picture out of my hands, flipped it, and handed it back. On the back of the photograph was a hand-written note. It was legible, but the kind of barely-legible handwriting that many men seemed to never grow out of. Not enough time doodling hearts in their diaries, I guess. The note was short and clear.

_Keep this to yourself. I’ll see you soon._

Well, that wasn’t good.

“Well, that isn’t good.”

“My thoughts, too.” James stood and paced to the balcony, then back and forth again. The Pinocchio clock on feet. “I don’t know why this is happening to me.”

“Not that I’m unwilling to help, James, but why haven’t you gone to the police?”

“Because-” James stopped in his tracks, facing the great outdoors, and crossed his arms over his chest. There wasn’t so much smog today. He faced me. “Because I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Look at that note. Keep this to myself!”

“You brought it to me.”

“That’s different,” he said. It really wasn’t.

“James, why don’t you trust the police?”

“What?” James turned to face me. His whole body was tight.

“You don’t trust the police. That’s why you brought clear evidence of stalking and harassment to me instead. I’m flattered, and I’m going to help you,” I stood and walked around the desk until I stood next to James. Up close, I noticed the few inches of height I had on him. “But if there’s a _reason_ you need to keep this from the police, I need to know.”

“No,” his shoulders relaxed. “It’s not like that. I just… I’ll take it to the cops, eventually, but I don’t want to start there.” He gave a wry smile. “They have all the subtlety of a hammer.”

“That they do,” I smiled back. I wasn’t fully convinced that James had told me the truth, but he didn’t seem to be holding any dangerous secrets. “How long have you lived in Los Angeles, James?”

“About seven years, now.”

“Who have you pissed off in the last seven years?” We returned to the desk, and he sank into the director’s chair slowly. James shrugged. “No one?”

“I mean, I lead a pretty quiet life. Work, home.”

“Friends?”

“Some, I guess. I’ll go out with coworkers on our nights off, but night shifts don’t lend themselves to an active social life. I get along pretty well with everyone, I have no disciplinary actions on my record at work, no complaints between myself and my neighbors.”

It all fit with the James I knew, but it didn’t fit with the evidence in front of me. Somewhere, there was a link between the quiet and agreeable man who worked nights at the hospital and a determined person who had spent nearly two months terrorizing him. I leaned my elbows on the desk and looked James in the face.

“Who wants to hurt you, James? What did you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” I leaned closer. Just because it didn’t come to mind immediately didn’t mean it wouldn’t eventually. “You said or did something, and it got you noticed in the bad way. This person isn’t demanding money or retribution, he’s demanding silence. Who wants you to stop talking?” James’s eyes were wide and baffled.

“Stop talking about what?”

“You tell me. Did you go on a podcast, or go to a city council meeting, or visit a high school for career day? Come on, James. You said something and pissed _somebody_ off, so think about it.” James searched my face for a second as if he'd find the answers there, and he must have, because a moment later he recoiled.

“Oh, shit.” Oh shit was bad for James as a person, but it was good for me as a detective. Oh shit meant progress. I liked oh shit. He leaned back in the chair, pale, and covered his mouth with one hand.

“Tell me.”

“The January before this one, Nuestra Familia and a white supremacist street gang called Public Enemy No. 1 got into it pretty bad in the first half of the year. Some big names got hurt.” James looked like he was going to throw up, and I imagined having to replace the director's chairs. They'd lived a good life.

“I remember.” It had made the news, the threat of a full-scale gang war on the streets of LA was the sort of thing people noticed. More than one of my neighbors had talked about moving, even though we lived far enough from the thick of it to be in danger. Tensions had been defused, eventually, and people went back to murder and crime at the regular rates. Life goes on.

“A Public Enemy officer came in through the emergency department on a night I was working. He was kinda young, just some punk asshole, but covered in tattoos and scars.”

“Okay. Nurses must treat gang members all the time. What went wrong?”

“Nothing, that night. I stitched him up and he was out before dawn.” James leaned forward and held his head in his hands. “A few weeks later, I got subpoenaed. They said that kid went out the morning after I fixed him up and murdered one of the Familia, but the defense argued that he would have been unable to commit the crime in the state he was in.”

“So you, as the person who provided his treatment, were called in to testify.” James nodded miserably into his hands.

“Oh my God.”

“Did he do it?”

“Does it matter if he did? I’m not sure, but they sent him up to Pelican Bay.” Pelican Bay was California’s only supermax prison, near the California/Oregon border and along the coast. It was a hard place to survive, from what I'd heard. The guys who worked in corrections up there were the hardest of the hard and had serious trust issues.

“And your testimony played a part in that.” It wasn’t a question. Whatever James had said, someone felt it was directly responsible for putting a high-ranking gang member in prison.

“The problem isn’t that he got locked up, Cole. Gangs work out of prisons every day, effectively. Pelican Bay is practically an office building for those guys. The problem is that when he got there, someone fucking put him in a block with the Norteños.”

The Norteños were a gang with close ties to Nuestra Familia, allies who shared a mutual hatred of white supremacist gangs like Public Enemy or the Nazi Lowriders. That _was_ a problem. Although it was illegal to house or segregate prison inmates by race, they were always asked about gang affiliations on the way in so they could be placed with their own. Otherwise, it would be bloodshed all day, every day. Whoever put a Public Enemy officer in did it on purpose and was probably already unemployed at best, dead at worst. That wasn’t the sort of thing that happened by accident in Pelican Bay. It wasn't the sort of thing that went unpunished.

“So he was dead before sundown.”

“He made it half an hour,” James said. I whistled. “And as awful as that is, I didn’t think it would impact me. He’s been dead for over a year.”

“So your testimony made him vulnerable, and he got got. I don’t see why they didn’t just kill you.” Okay, so maybe World’s Greatest Detective wasn’t also World’s Most Comforting Man. Sue me. I stared at the photos on the desk between us. James pulling out of a parking lot. James getting groceries. James relaxing at the community pool behind what I assumed was his apartment building.

All the photos were taken from a ways away, all very vulnerable moments. I knew that finding out you were watched like this could feel very violating. Learning that your home wasn't safe, worrying that someone had eyes on you everywhere you go, it changed a person. Most people were self-conscious about whether or not they picked their nose in the car. Someone being stalked was worried that any time they stopped for gas, got takeout, or stepped outside their home, some asshole with a zoom lens was jerking off to the idea of hurting them.

“I shouldn’t have come here.” James stood suddenly, swiping the pictures off the desk. “I’m sorry, Cole, I shouldn’t have brought you into this. I have to go.” I rushed around my desk as he pulled open my office door, and managed to grab him by the forearm as he stepped out.

“Don’t leave yet, James.”

“No, you don’t understand.” James didn’t raise his voice, but he spoke with an intensity I hadn’t heard from him before. “I didn’t realize this was a gang problem, but if-” he hissed a curse, “if Public Enemy is following me, then I just brought them _here_ , Cole. To you. I have to leave _now._ ”

“Stop, think about this." I looked James directly in the eye and added slight, reassuring pressure to my grip on his arm. “They’ve had a lot of chances to kill you and they haven’t yet. Which means you’re probably not in danger today. Right?”

James closed his eyes and nodded, then took a deep breath. When he looked at me again I could still see threads of panic running underneath, but the calm was in control now. He straightened his posture, though it seemed like an unconscious motion.

“I’ll call Joe, you know he can handle whatever they throw his way. Hey,” I gave him an encouraging smile, “they’re just a street gang. What can they do against someone like Joe Pike?”

“Yeah,” James smiled back and exhaled a small huff of relief. He looked at the pictures and the cash left on my desk. “You’re right. Right. How much do you think I'll owe you?”

“I’ll give you a discount for wearing the nurse outfit, but even with expenses I'm sure there'll be some left over from that.” James nodded. It was oddly clandestine, the roll of cash he'd brought out immediately - I wondered if it was his life savings. I wondered if he got it from a loan shark, or paid in cash because he was trying to hide the transaction. News flash, buddy: that much in a cash withdrawal will definitely catch attention.

“Consider the rest a tip,” he said.

“I will.” I let go of him and he turned to leave. “Oh, and James?”

“Yeah?” He looked back at me over his shoulder.

“You’re going to be okay.”

“Yeah.” James smiled, but he didn’t believe me. I wasn’t sure I believed me, either. From my balcony, I watched him get into his own car - a modest Toyota sedan - and sit there without turning on the engine. He still hadn’t moved by the time Joe Pike answered the phone.

“Gun shop.”

“You remember James, right?”

“The likable one.” It wasn’t a question. I wondered what adjective Pike used to describe me, and how unflattering it was on a scale from 1 to 10, and decided I was better off not knowing.

“He needs us.” I turned to a filing cabinet behind my desk while Pike said nothing - I had James’s information in my records somewhere. He was listed under C, for Consultants. Score one for past me. “If I give you an address, how long will it take you to head that way?”

“Tell me where.” I relayed the address I had on file, and Joe hung up without another word. Not a howyadoin, not a niceweatheryathink.

“I love our shorthand,” I said to no one.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Joe_ **

Joe Pike left his gun shop in the capable hands of his small staff and pulled his Jeep out into traffic. He didn’t need to put the address Cole gave him into his GPS - he used to have a contact who lived in the same area. As Pike remembered it, morning traffic to that neighborhood had always been aggressive. He maneuvered onto the highway between morning commuters distracted by their coffee, their phones, or their kids, but Pike himself never lost focus. 

Pike stayed with the flow of traffic until he spotted his exit, then cut in front of a Buick whose driver made his displeasure known. When the street widened, the Buick pulled into the lane beside Pike and gunned the engine until they were even. The man - white male, middle-aged, greying - gave Pike a one-finger salute and sped off. Whatever. Five minutes later, Joe Pike circled the block around James’s address and found street parking with a clear view out front. 

The apartment was a clean six-story building with a fenced-in recreational area out back, including a modest pool and an old tennis court. It wasn’t fancy, by any means, but it was nice. The building itself had a keyed door. As Pike watched, a middle-aged woman with a small dog let herself in. It was a 5-digit code, and he could have guessed it even from a distance. Most of the residents appeared to be solidly middle-class workers, the kind of people who worked all day and went out in the afternoon with friends.

Three minutes after Pike arrived, James got home. 

James pulled his car into the resident parking lot and found a spot near the door. The car was a white sedan, early 2000’s model, but well maintained. He stepped out and paused to look behind himself, scanning the street as though he would be able to spot anyone watching. James’s gaze crossed over Pike and kept going without a pause of recognition - Pike was too far away. Even from this distance, he could tell that James was tired.

Pike watched James let himself in through the locked doors and disappear into his apartment building. When he was satisfied that no one else was watching, Pike clipped the holster for his Python .357 to his jeans, holstered the gun, and adjusted his sleeveless sweatshirt to cover the bulge. He slipped out of his Jeep and crossed the street. 

There was an intercom system outside the front door that showed resident surnames, but Joe didn’t have to stop for it. An elderly man on his way out smiled and held the door open for him as he approached. That was the problem with polite neighbors. Pike already knew which unit he was looking for, but it would have been simple for any watcher to simply wait for an unassuming resident to let them in.

Pike skipped the elevators in the lobby and opted to take three flights of stairs, not passing another person the entire way up. In a building like this with elevators, stairwells were practically neglected by most residents. He slipped out of the stairwell and into a quiet, clean hallway with gray low-pile carpet and doorways on both sides of the hall - odd numbers on the left, even numbers on the right along the back of the building. James’s apartment was 312, halfway down the hall. Most of the doors had a welcome mat or small decoration on the door, an attempt to derive individuality in such a uniform setting. James’s door had nothing. Pike stepped close, then knelt by the doorknob.

James’s door showed signs of tampering. A pick gun, Pike guessed, based on the graphite dust left behind but an overall lack of other damage. Pick guns were quick, inelegant tools that took all the care and consideration out of breaking in, but they were good in situations like this. You can only stand outside a door so long before someone comes down the hallway and makes you for a stranger. If you needed to get in quickly and quietly, that was the best way to go - and someone had definitely taken that route. Whoever he was, he’d already been inside James’s apartment.

Pike knocked firmly on the door, twice, and stood in out of view from the peephole. It took a whole three minutes for James to decide to crack open the door. James peeked out nervously, then relaxed when he saw Pike. He looked worse up close.

“I’m not really prepared for guests,” James said. His body filled the narrow opening in the doorway, so Pike couldn’t see past him into the apartment. Pike studied his face - no acute distress. There was no one hiding on the other side of the door.

“You’ll want to invite me in.” It wasn’t a question. James considered this for a moment before stepping back and opening his front door all the way.

“Right,” he shook his head in resignation. This time when he spoke, Pike caught a whiff of acid, as though James had recently thrown up. His eyes were red-rimmed, so maybe he had. “I’m getting what I paid for.” He stepped back and opened the door further, and Pike saw that he had already changed out of his scrubs and into a pair of gray shorts with a black t-shirt.

Pike followed him into the house without comment, closing and locking the door behind himself. James held a kitchen knife in his left hand. Pike knew it wouldn’t be much good in a fight - the first rule of knife combat is that everybody loses. James walked into the kitchen and returned the knife to its block. Pike un-holstered the revolver at his hip, and James looked away as he did.

Before anything else, Pike cleared the house, scanning the kitchen and living area before clearing the three rooms down the hallway. He followed the hall to the first room on the left, a small spare room that held nothing but a few boxes and a stationary bike. Pike opened the closet doors, the Python half-up in preparation. Nothing. The next room was clearly James’s room, occupied by a bed, dresser, and bookshelf. Blackout blinds kept out most of the sunlight, but enough came through the corners to see. Pike stepped in for a clearer view and saw the closet was open and mostly empty. Clear. The open door at the end of the hall revealed a bathroom.

“Pike,” James said quietly behind him, and Joe paused without turning. “He left a note.”

Pike walked to the end of the hall and looked in the bathroom. Like the kitchen and living area, it was kept neat. There was nothing on the counter except for hand soap, a bluetooth speaker, and a hand towel. The shower curtain was pulled back, and Pike felt satisfied that they were the only two people currently in the apartment. He holstered his gun, noting that James turned away again when he did, and then he saw the note.

It was a photo taped to the bathroom mirror. 

The picture showed James in gray scrubs, arms crossed with a tense look on his face. He was standing on the balcony of Elvis Cole’s office, staring off into the distance. Whoever had taken the photo had been across the street at ground level. They must have been fast to take the picture, print it, and be out before James got home. Below the note was a message written on the mirror in black permanent marker. It was short and to the point.

**WRONG MOVE**

“I didn’t think this could get any worse,” James said from the hallway. Pike turned away from the mirror to face him.

“He could have been waiting for you.”

James pondered that for a moment with his lips pursed, then nodded and walked to the kitchen. Pike glanced in his bedroom again - it looked more lived-in than the rest of the apartment. There were a few beer bottles on a nightstand, an empty glass, and two sets of scrubs on the floor. He could see various knicknacks on top of the dresser, including a few photo frames. Only one picture was angled to be visible from the doorway. Pike stepped in and removed his sunglasses to see it clearer.

It was a picture of one person, framed in close on his face. The subject looked impossibly young, with blond hair that hung over his forehead and partially obscured his eyes. He wore dark eyeshadow and his lips were painted purple, and a golden necklace was just visible at the bottom of the frame. The young man leaned his chin on one hand, and a half-dozen gold-colored bangles decorated his wrist. It was undeniably a picture of James, though he looked so young that it must have been from long before he came to Los Angeles. Pike couldn’t imagine why someone would want a photo of their own face on their dresser.

“You want something to drink?” James called from the kitchen, his head buried in the refrigerator. “I’ve got booze, OJ, water, and rice milk. Oh, and ginger beer.” He stood up and faced Joe across the open living area as Pike came out of the hallway, sunglasses back on. “I could mix you something.”

“Water is fine.” 

Pike came to the end of the hall, surveying the space in front of him. There was a small kitchen directly ahead, clear of dishes but with an impressive liquor collection. James reached into a cupboard full of tall glasses. Around Pike was a living and dining area with a small table, a mismatched couch and chair, and a media station that looked about five years out of date. 

The area was tastefully decorated with houseplants and a few art prints on the walls. It was probably what most people would consider cozy. A sliding glass door on the far end of the living area led to a small patio space. It probably had enough room for two to sit comfortably, but there were no chairs. Potted plants took up most of that space.

Joe checked the windows and patio door for signs of tampering, then pulled a small black plastic box out of his jeans pocket. It was about the size of an iPod and would read any radio frequencies in the room if he got near enough, including whatever the TV and game system might put out. If there were bugs or cameras, though, he’d be able to pick them out. Like most young people, James didn’t have a landline, so that was one less thing to worry about. Pike thought it unlikely that this type of home invader would have the resources or inclination to bug an apartment, but it would be a mistake to assume.

“Have you noticed anything missing or out of place?” Joe asked when he finished, joining James in the kitchen. There was a glass of water waiting on the counter for him, and James was halfway through his own glass of orange juice. On the counter behind him was a bottle of vodka with the cap off, so maybe it was more than just juice. James took another drink.

“No.”

“Had any weird phone calls, or expected any deliveries that never showed?”

“No.” James finished the glass. When he refilled the glass, James skipped the juice and poured a small measure of vodka straight. He downed it like it was nothing.

“Maybe you should slow down.”

“Maybe.” James looked at the empty glass in his hands, his expression unreadable. “But someone broke into my house today.” He held the glass close to his chest and stared into middle distance.

Pike left James standing there and walked to the guest room, where he made a call.

“Elvis Cole detective agency. Hire a dick you won’t regret.”

“It’s me.”

“Oh.” Pike heard the sound of shuffling paper from the other side of the phone. Cole liked to take notes. “What did you find?”

“Bump gun B&E, left a picture from this morning and a note. Intruder didn’t stick around for Lockstep to get home.”

“How’d he take it?”

“He’s drinking.” Elvis didn’t respond for a few moments. Pike wondered if he was remembering any of the number of times that his own place had been broken into. Then he spoke again.

“I put out a few calls to friends on the force, and I’m looking into Public Enemy. They’re aggressive up-and-comers, making a name for themselves. If we’re being honest, I don’t like the idea of a gang that plays with their food. Especially if they feel they’ve got something to prove.”

“No.” In the kitchen, Pike heard James open the fridge and pour himself another drink.

“See if you can spot the tail. Once you’re on him, we’ll find a window to get James to a safe location.”

There was nothing left to say, so Pike hung up the phone and stepped out of the spare room. James was in the living area, sitting on a leather chair that might have been as old as its occupant. His glass looked like it had orange juice again, but Pike was willing to bet it was another screwdriver. He stood across the room at a distance.

“You need to call out of work tonight.”

“Seriously? I can’t do that.” James set his drink on the coffee table in front of him, pausing to move a coaster into place. “I haven’t called in sick in three years.”

“It’s not an ask. We’re moving you.”

“Now?”

“Later today.” 

James rested his elbows on his knees and hid his face in his hands. Pike watched his back rise and fall with a deep, measured breath. One, and then another, carrying on for a few minutes. The deep breathing transitioned into a drawn-out, shaky laugh. James’s voice was rough.

“Fine.” James stood, snatching up his half-empty drink and finishing it as he stalked to the kitchen. He washed it by hand in the sink, looking over at Pike. His face held the hint of a smile, but no happiness. “But I’m sleeping first, and then I get to pack a few things. I worked all night.” James set the glass down on a drying rack, then strode past Pike and down the hallway.

“That’s fine.”

“Lock the door on your way out.” James closed his bedroom door behind himself, and the apartment was silent. A moment later, James opened the door again and stepped into the hallway. “Pike… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so harsh.”

“I know.”

“Thank you, too. I don’t know what I would do if...” James made a vague one-handed gesture.

“Get some sleep.”

“Yeah.”

This time, Pike took the elevator down. He checked the hallway for a security camera as he waited and looked in the elevator as well, but there were none. There was a camera in the main lobby that would have picked up anyone coming in or out, but once a person got two yards into the building they would be out of sight. It was functionally useless as a security system. Pike would come back later for footage, or have Cole do it, but he had higher priorities at the moment.

The residential parking lot was empty in the late morning. Pike took an immediate left and walked the opposite direction of his car, casting a casual look over the street as he did so. He identified three locations across the street that would make for ideal surveillance spots. Around the back of the apartment building were two more, one of which had a clear view of James’s patio. He could identify it by the plants. An office building across the street also offered a decent vantage point, but anyone new spending time in those offices would draw attention.

Pike walked a four-block circle back to his Jeep, keeping an eye out for any potential watchers. No one stood out. Perhaps they knew James’s schedule and sleeping routine well enough that they felt comfortable leaving for some time. Regardless, Pike re-parked a block farther back than he’d originally been and settled in for a long wait.

It was a slow neighborhood during business hours, even as the lunch rush came and passed. Pike was able to easily identify the cars that belonged to local residents, employees of nearby businesses, and those coming to the neighborhood for food. It was a decent enough place to live, a fairly safe neighborhood, and Pike imagined that a significant chunk of James’s income went to rent in this part of town. The people who lived here would never imagine one of their neighbors to be the subject of gang surveillance. The illusion of safety was strong here, and that made it all the more dangerous.

At around one in the afternoon, a green Subaru Outback parked across the street from the front of James’s apartment building, but no one got out. 

Pike watched for fifteen minutes. There was one silhouette in the car, a fit male, who shifted constantly as though he were not used to sitting still for so long. When the car had been there for an hour and a half, the man stepped out and walked half a block to a trendy cafe. He ordered something, came back to the car, and watched again. Another hour after that, he got out and returned to the cafe. Probably to use the restroom. Pike felt the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile. Whoever this guy was, he was definitely an amateur. He wasn’t even in one of the three ideal spots for surveillance.

The man came out of the cafe again, this time looking up and down the street as he walked. Pike made him for a white male his own age, athletic but not bulky. He wore blue jeans and a white sweatshirt that zipped to the collar. He wore the hood up and a green baseball cap underneath - from a distance, Pike could see there was some sort of design on the front of the cap, but he couldn’t make it out. When the man got in the car, Pike made out the telltale pull of a gun tucked into the back of his waistband. Oddly, the man sported no visible tattoos.

Eventually, the man settled into his position in the car and simply watched the apartment building across the street. His location was so obvious that Pike took a second look around himself to determine if there was backup surveillance, but found none.

Then Joe Pike did what he did best. He sat perfectly still and watched.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Elvis_ **

Any good detective will tell you that the first step to solving a case is understanding all the players involved. Know your enemy. As the World’s Greatest Detective, I feel qualified to add absolutely nothing to the idea - it’s solid. Once you know who you’re dealing with, it becomes much easier to figure out how to deal with them. The thing about Los Angeles is that while I’m absolutely certain white supremacy thrives here, it’s hard to imagine any place where it could concentrate enough for organized crime of that level. Los Angeles was, by definition, a pretty diverse place. You sure wouldn’t see any neo-Nazis in Echo Park.

I almost called Lou Poitras as I started my deep dive into white supremacist culture in Los Angeles, but thought better of it. He didn’t work on anything gang-specific, and I probably owe him money and he’d probably say something about it. I picked up my office phone and dialed another number I was starting to know well.

“This is Starkey.” Carol Starkey and I had met for the first time when Ben, the son of my former girlfriend Lucy Chenier, had been abducted. She’d been a detective at the time, but now worked with juvenile delinquents. We’d collaborated a little ever since, and she seemed to like me.

“Guess who?”

“I guess a sonofabitch who’s a minute away from making my life harder. Do I win a prize?” Such a kidder. I was still pretty sure she liked me.

“Ha. A lot of your juvie cases end up having gang ties, yeah?”

“What do you want?”

“Where would a white supremacist group set up shop in Los Angeles?”

Starkey laughed, and then laughed some more.

“Oh, is that all you need?”

“I don’t have an in with any organized crime detectives, but I figured you’d have a few guys who could help me narrow it down.” I leaned back at my desk and watched the Pinocchio clock scan the room. The pictures of James were still on my desk, his rolled up 50’s sitting on top like a paperweight. I tried not to look at either, but there was nothing else on my desk to look at except a few Jiminy Cricket figures.

“No way in hell are you looking at these files, Cole. These are minors, that shit’s locked down.”

“I don’t need to see the files. I need  _ you  _ to see the files, and tell me if any of them get picked up in the same neighborhood more than once.” Starkey was quiet over the phone. “I’ll owe you one.”

“You’ll owe me two, and one of those is dinner.”

“Fine. The gang I’m looking for is Public Enemy No. 1.”

“God, of course it is. Let me get back to you.”

When Carol was off the phone, I leaned forward and swiped James’s roll of cash off the desk. I opened the top left drawer of my desk, pulled out the zippered cash bag, and dropped the money inside. It was pretty hefty. Then I put the whole thing back. There, now I didn’t have to see it and think about the cool $5,000 dropped on my desk by someone I knew and liked. 

I wouldn’t call James a friend, we weren’t close, but he was friendly. Reliable. And, apparently, loose with his cash. It came off as a desperate move, which unnerved me. James had been in a few tight spots with Pike and I, and he worked as an emergency nurse, and he didn’t strike me as the kind of person who made desperate moves. I’d never seen him lose his nerve. Get nervous, yes, but never more than that. He was solid, except for this moment. That made me nervous, too.

I decided to call Lou anyway. If he hounded me about money, well, I knew where I could get some. He didn’t, and he didn’t have anything else to say except that I should watch my own ass, as usual. Public Enemy didn’t become successful by being kind and forgiving. That didn’t shock me, but it was clear I wouldn’t learn any more about them without doing some in-person research.

James was the other player in this, and I felt it important to learn more about him as well. Just like Public Enemy needs to be ruthless to do well, you don’t become successful in my line of work by believing everything you’re told. Not from clients, and not even from clients who you knew on a more personal basis. Everyone lied, and if they didn’t lie, they hid things. Sometimes those things weren’t important, but usually they were, and I needed to know ahead of time. If it turned out that James had other gang ties, or that he was involved in something controversial, that was the sort of thing I didn’t want to discover at the last minute.

I knew that James worked as an emergency room nurse at a hospital, but to call every hospital in the Los Angeles area would be to spend a day getting not very far. I decided to start from the other direction - I knew that James was a nurse, and that you can’t just walk into any hospital and say you’d like to be a nurse and get handed a pair of scrubs and a badge. Nurses needed education and certification, and some of that is public information.

California had a website to verify certifications from any number of boards, including the California Board of Registered Nursing. You could even find me on there, under Private Investigators. It didn’t take much - just to select which certification I was looking for, and the name of the person in question. I only added James by his last name. No surprise, there was only one Lockstep as a registered nurse in the great state of California. His license was valid, up to date, and didn’t expire until the end of the year. I clicked on the link for more details.

It didn’t tell me much, but it did confirm something James had already said - that he was in good standing with the board, and had faced no disciplinary actions. It had his city listed as Irvine, which I already knew, but it made me think - how far is one willing to commute for work? I pulled up an online map of hospitals between Irvine and Los Angeles, which narrowed my search considerably, and then I started calling.

The first half dozen were busts. Two of them refused to provide any information about staff that wasn’t available online, and the rest said that they had no one employed by that name.

“West Anaheim Medical Center,” a soft, cheery voice answered on the seventh try. “How may I direct your call?”

“I’m not quite sure,” I gave my best embarrassed voice. “I want to thank the nurse who saved my daughter’s life, but this was in the ER and I’m sure they’re busy down there. Can you help?”

“It depends, sir. What do you need?”

“Well, it was about a year ago, so I don’t know if he still works there. I just want to make sure I’m not sending this gift card off to someone who won’t get it.” I laughed nervously, hoping she’d take me for a bit of a chump. It wasn’t that hard, according to some. “His name was… James, I think? The last name was definitely unique. Lockheart. No, um… Lockstep? That sounds right. Can you just check if he still works there?”

“Hold for one moment, sir.” She didn’t sound certain. I listened patiently to poor-quality  _ Muzak _ interspersed with friendly reminders to get my flu shot and switch to paperless billing. It took long enough that I wondered if the receptionist had bought my story, or if she was unsure and checking with her boss, or if she knew exactly who I was and had sent a SWAT unit to knock down my door for lying over the phone. Maybe every hospital in the region shared one big chat forum, and they were all laughing about my clumsy attempts to find information. You just never know.

“Thank you for holding,” the woman’s voice was more relaxed when she came back. “It looks like we do still have him on staff. I can’t provide more details, but if you address a card to his name, he’ll receive it.”

“Thank you so much,” I said. “He was so nice and attentive. My little girl wouldn’t be here today if not for him.”

“That’s wonderful to hear, sir. You have a great day now.” She hung up fast. I guess if you worked in a hospital long enough, you didn’t let people build up to their long-winded medical monologues. Fine by me.

At least now I knew that James  _ was _ in good standing with the board, which hospital he worked at, and that his work commute was less than half an hour. It wasn’t nothing, but it wasn’t much of anything, either. I could do this kind of work all day and have nothing to show for it. I switched tactics.

Many court records are available to the public in California, though you often have to visit the courthouse to view paper or electronic copies. Certain high-profile cases may have some information available remotely, meaning I could pull it up on my own computer if a judge determined that to be appropriate. Unfortunately, the trial where James served as a witness was not available remotely, so I would have to visit the Santa Ana courthouse. That was fine.

I pulled on my shoulder holster and had my Dan Wesson in place when Pike called with an update on James. I took notes. He was short and to the point, as always, but it wasn’t good news. I tapped my pen on my notebook and thought about someone breaking into James’s house and thought about James drinking and thought about Nazis. I thought about never taking personal cases again, because it sucked more. We agreed to move James to a safe location later. I hung up, put on my white cotton jacket, and was about to leave when my phone rang again. Really?

“Elvis Cole Detective Agency. Tethered to my desk for your convenience.”

“Come off it, Cole. I’ve got something for you.” It was Starkey, and she sounded pleased with herself. I could hear wind and traffic behind her, so she must have stepped outside and called me on her smoke break. It had been a pretty quick turn-around time between my first call and her response, so they must be having a slow day down at the Juvenile Hall. Imagine that.

“Oh?”

“There’s a bar in Long Beach called Barbie. We seem to pick up a lot of intoxicated minors with swastika tattoos in that neighborhood, so it’s worth a look. Long Beach seems to be the focus, but if you have no luck out there, seems like there’s a bit of presence in Santa Clarita.”

“Santa Clarita? Really?”

“Stranger things have happened. Stranger things could happen over dinner tonight, say, eight? I like Italian.”

I made an uncertain sound over the phone.

“Rain check?”

“If you say so, Cole, but I’m taking this one to the bank.”

“Thanks again, Starkey.”

“Sure.”

The phone managed to not ring between the time it took me to find Barbie’s address online and get the hell out the door. South Beach was a little northwest of the courthouse and closer to me, but I went to the courthouse first anyway. It was nice enough out that I put the top down on my old Stingray. It had been out of date when I bought it and practically qualified as a classic car now, but you couldn’t tell through the layer of dust. Much cheaper to wait for the rain to wash it for me. Frugal Detective. Lazy Detective.

Traffic was easy. I raised the top on my car and then stowed the Dan Wesson in my glove box after I parked - pretty good chance the security guys wouldn’t be thrilled about it, and I didn’t plan on getting tackled today. It was only late morning, so I had to keep the effort up for a while longer. The security guards in question smiled at me as I walked in, emptied my pockets into a small plastic tub, and passed through the metal detector. See? No need to tackle. I retrieved my belongings from the tub and made my way to the records room, hoping something in there would give me more background on James.

Then again, maybe there really was nothing to find.

That was true of the court records - it listed James as a witness, it listed court dates and resolutions and fees assessed and the names of other personnel involved, but there was nothing in that record to shed more light on James or the scenario at hand. As a lark, I searched for all records including his name to see if anything else came up, and my hand froze over the mouse. 

James Lockstep was mentioned in two court documents through the Santa Ana courthouse. The first and most recent was the Public Enemy trial, but there was another file from seven years ago. It must have happened just after he moved. The document itself was sealed, but I could at least see what kind of record it was. It was a record of name change.

“Well, well,” I said out loud. Detectives said things like that when they found interesting information. It was possible for me to request the document through the court, but I had no valid reason to ask them to unseal a name change form that was nearing a decade in age. No matter. I tucked that piece of information away in case it needed attention later, and thanked the records clerk on my way out.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” The clerk was definitely talking to me, but his eyes never left his computer screen.

“I don’t know,” I said. Look at me, Mr. Enigmatic.

I hadn’t been inside long, but my car was baking hot by the time I got back. As I pulled out of the courthouse parking lot, I cranked the AC. It was a short drive to the I-5 on-ramp, and I followed the highway for a good ten miles - passing Disneyland - before dropping off onto Artesia Freeway. It led me at least that distance again before I nosed off the freeway and onto East Artesia Boulevard.

Barbie’s Bar shared its building with a church, which would have struck me as funny if it wasn’t already sad. The bar itself had a wooden front and a garish orange roof and no good place out front to sit and surveil - it sat on a busy four-lane road. I found my way around back and found a small parking lot, but it was safe to bet that most of the folks who frequented such a fine establishment took advantage of street parking or lived nearby to walk. 

I took a spot along the curb not far back from the parking lot, then walked around the front to get a closer look. A dingy sign informed me that they would open at 1 pm. I checked my clock - less than an hour to wait. I jaywalked to the Hawaiian place across the street, ordered, and took a table by the window. The food was cheap, but good, and I took my time on it as I watched Barbie’s across the way.

Barbie’s Bar didn’t hang a swastika flag out front, and it was likely that to the average person it would look normal in passing. The longer I looked, though, the more that image fell apart. One window held the SS bolts in white neon. Below that was a wolfsangel - an old German symbol that looked like a backwards Z with a horizontal line through the middle. Both were oft-used symbols of white supremacists.

Half an hour after the bar opened, I cleared my table and made my way to the nearest crosswalk. I crossed, then made my way back up the street until I was standing in front of Barbie’s. It was uglier up close, and I noticed more stickers and Nazi symbolism. In the glass of the door was another sticker that told me I was exactly where I wanted to be. It was a simple “737,” but I knew from previous research that the number was associated with Public Enemy. I adjusted my coat to better cover my shoulder holster and pushed the door open.


End file.
